


For Want of A Nail

by Butternuggets



Category: A Discovery of Witches (TV), All Souls Trilogy - Deborah Harkness
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Multi, Pre-Canon, Sloooow burn, biBaldwin, write the fanfiction you want to read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25012948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butternuggets/pseuds/Butternuggets
Summary: Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of mistakes.His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to irritate him every other century.
Relationships: Baldwin Clairmont/Original Character(s), Baldwin Clairmont/Original Male Character, Baldwin de Clermont/Original Male Character
Comments: 11
Kudos: 25





	1. Traps Within Traps

**Author's Note:**

> **ANIMAL DEATH IMMEDIATELY IN FIRST CHAPTER**
> 
> For want of a nail the shoe was lost.  
> For want of a shoe the horse was lost.  
> For want of a horse the rider was lost.  
> For want of a rider the message was lost.  
> For want of a message the battle was lost.  
> For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.  
> And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.  
> \- a proverb, origin unknown.

It started with a horse.

Lucius had been urging the unfortunate animal on towards the camp a few miles away from Bibracte through a winding valley pass. Recent heavy rainfall had turned the ground beneath them to a churning soup of topsoil and shredded branches. Rocks and small stones crunched and slithered beneath the horse’s hooves; Lucius led it carefully through the mire, praying to all the gods that they would make it back to camp before nightfall.

The horse suddenly shied violently to the right and stumbled, losing its footing. It gave a pained whinny as a shoe came loose and was ripped violently from its hoof. 

‘Woah!’ Lucius heaved on the reins, trying desperately to regain control, but the horse only whinnied again, then bucked and reared up, sending him thudding to the ground.

He landed on his back, dazed and gasping as the air was knocked from his lungs. His hand grasped instinctively for his sword and as he began to right himself, he suddenly realised how eerily silent the surrounding forest had become.

His horse had disappeared.

So had the path in front of him.

There was a massive gaping pit about half a metre away. It had been cleverly concealed with discarded leaves and semi-dried mud, with a thin lattice of string and twigs acting as a makeshift lid. Lucius peered cautiously over the edge and bit down a furious scream. The grey pony lay lifeless and still, skewered by several thick spikes set into the mud at the bottom of the pit. The poor creature never stood a chance.

Nobody was charging out from amid the undergrowth, but the prickling hairs on the back of his neck told him he was being watched. A low hissing sound drew his attention back to the spot where the horse had first tried to flee; Lucius reared back himself when he pushed aside some rotting vegetation with the tip of his gladius and found an asp trying to slither up and out of a manmade hole.

Traps within traps. He was mildly impressed.

A flicker of movement drew his attention to a thicket on the hill to his right; he sunk into a defensive pose, trying to peer deeper into the mist. The moisture and muck clinging to his face made it difficult to see but he was sure he spotted a flash of colour amidst the green.

The beat of silence dragged. 

Lucius wiped his eyes clean, keeping his sword levelled at the hedge, and squinted. Nobody moved, no one spoke. He took a few tentative steps forward, edging around the pit, and then further along the path.

The forest was still.

Perhaps it was an old trap, left over by some passing group of hunters. Perhaps the shock was messing with his nerves. Lucius shuffled further, trying not to turn his back on the trap or the thicket. He hadn’t risen through the ranks of the Roman army by letting his guard down based on assumption.

After hobbling awkwardly for about ten minutes, he finally crested the curve leading up and out of the valley. From this angle he could see the trap below quite clearly, and the forest, and the young man-

Lucius froze.

The Gaul froze too.

He could have been a farmer, dressed as he was in a simple woollen tunic, except for the bow and arrow in his hands. He had been crouching in a hollow behind the hedge, and had obviously been trying to shift positions so that Lucius wouldn’t spot him.

They eyed each other cautiously.

Lucius stood his ground, sword in hand but lower now, closer to his hip. Why hadn’t the Gaul opened fire? He was wearing armour, true, but a well-placed arrow to the neck would have been enough to finish him off.

The young man stared.

Lucius said nothing.

Without making a sound, the Gaul suddenly sat back on his haunches, swinging himself up and into a hunched, awkward stance. Lucius gripped his sword tighter but the man turned away, shuffled backwards from his hiding place and slowly started to run, as fast as he could, in the opposite direction.


	2. Our Rage Will Cease When We Are Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***GRAHIC DEPICTIONS OF DEATH, BLOOD, AND GORE***
> 
> 'Victoria aut morte!' - Victory or death!  
> my apologies for the use of Google Translate but I'm afraid I don't speak Latin.
> 
> Also, I tried to get the syntax of the speech as close as possible to how they may have sounded back then. Again, I'm not a historian, and I wrote that bit when I was extremely tired, so if you think it needs correcting please let me know.

Bibracte would never be considered the cradle of civilisation, but it had been his mother’s. She had taken Tinus there the year before she died. He had clung to her legs, terrified of the overwhelming whirlwind of sights and smells in the overcrowded streets. He had preferred their usual roughshod existence in the forests; the quiet crackle of the cooking fire, the tinny scrape of wet stone on blade, his mother’s quiet songs.

His father had seen to his education, taking him on as his apprentice as soon as he was able to hold a bow. They had harassed Roman legionnaires for profit and pleasure for a little over ten years before they were finally caught on the borders of a Roman encampment. His father had been hacked to pieces. It had been an honourable death for a mercenary.

The jostling of the crowd around him brought his thoughts back to reality. He was standing in a field on the outskirts of the town, shoulder to shoulder with what seemed like half its population. Tinus was grateful for the body heat; it was a bitterly cold night but no fires had been permitted for fear the local infantry would investigate the light.

The Aedui were supposed to be allied with Rome, after all. They had to at least try and keep up a veneer of solidarity with their oppressors.

Moonlight illuminated the scene for a moment as a man stepped forward from amid the throng. The stranger wore the tunic of a leader and looked as though he had recently been riding. Mud and blood splatter covered his boots and his cloak was slashed and torn. His eyes burned with intensity as he raised a hand in greeting.

‘Citizens of Bibracte, hail! Vercingetorix holds Alesia, to stand against the sovereignty of Rome. Our strength is his strength! Just as a body withers and crumbles if not worked tirelessly, so too shall his efforts be in vain if not supported! I ask each of you to bear arms, to carry away to Alesia and help bring about the obliteration of our enemy!’

Heated discussion broke out.

Tinus let the hissing whispers wash over him as he digested the news. He had heard rumours of a large force of men passing through the area on their way north, but he had missed the march by a week. Lingering, he’d made contact with a small group of like-minded individuals before word had reached them of the clandestine emergency meeting.

Tinus smiled bitterly. If his father had been here, he would have rounded up the crowd and simply marched them to Alesia at sword point. He would have been furious that people were being given an opportunity to back out.

Rome was a titan, gorging itself on the scant resources of an enslaved people it forced to pay it tribute. It had brough with it the disease that killed his mother, and the soldiers that had murdered his father. Why were they still willing to pretend that the empire would allow them to create their own civilisation at their own pace?

Tinus plunged an arm into the chattering throng and wedged an opening for himself so that he could slip through. Eventually he managed to stumble his way to the front where he drew his sword and held it aloft.

He wasn’t the only one; some of the crowd had scattered, but a great wave of people had surged forward eagerly, weapons raised defiantly above their heads. A low chant rumbled and began to build.

‘Victoria aut morte, Victoria aut morte!’

‘For Vercingetorix! For Gaul!’

* * *

They lost.

The sun was directly above him. He was lying on his back, sunlight searing his eyes, making it impossible to see. He didn’t feel warm. Were people still screaming? His legs hurt.

They lost.

The wall had been a surprise.

A long impenetrable wooden barrier surrounded by pit traps and topped with spearmen, infantry, and archers. They had charged, regardless. They had to break the line.

They lost.

He wasn’t sure what had happened. He blinked. His left hand flinched- muscle spasm- and he felt the soft squish of bloody flesh. Entrails. He’d been disembowelled.

How could they lose?

He remembered now and wished he hadn’t. His legs hurt because they had been crushed beneath his own horse; falling on him in its desperate attempt to get away, slipping its saddle due to a lucky swipe from a Roman blade. It hadn’t been lucky for him.

He coughed blood and struggled to sit up, the silent battlefield embracing him, keeping him mired in it. He wasn’t screaming. No one was screaming. The voices were just in his head.

* * *

The crunching footfalls were not. The head suddenly looming over him was haloed in golden light, the face dark and shadowed.

He felt cold.

It wasn’t fear. Just a fact.

The stranger wasn’t wearing a helmet, and they didn’t appear to be wearing a Roman uniform. The stranger tilted their head as if contemplating something.

‘You could be useful’

The stranger was a man.

They spoke with an odd lilt to their voice, like the tribes still living free in the wilds to the far north, on the very edge of the empire. The man bent down and heaved Tinus up onto his lap. Tinus’ agonised scream turned into a thick gurgle, clogged down by the blood bubbling up from within his throat. The stranger wrapped his cloak around him. His vision swam for a moment, his eyelids suddenly drooping. The man slapped him gently on the cheek.

‘Would you like a second chance to finish what was started here today?’

Tinus frowned. He was very, very cold.

He tried to nod but his head lolled awkwardly to the side. He could see the stranger leaning close, pressing something firmly against his exposed skin.

A stinging, needle-like spike of agony suddenly surged across his neck and chest, causing his whole body to seize. He tried to wriggle away but the man clamped down harder on his chest, locking him in place. A warm liquid trickled down and pooled in the crook of his shoulder. His vision swam sharply, the world slipping into a spiral. He felt like his body had suddenly been plunged into a freezing river.

His mind broke, and his consciousness slipped slowly into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Aedui were one of the largest tribes in Gaul. They were supporters of Rome, but gave aid Vercingetorix in his quest to tear down Roman rule. He was unsuccessful, and his rebellion was crushed by Julius Caesar at the Battle of Alesia in 52BC.
> 
> Despite helping her enemies, the Aedui were treated well by Rome even after the failed uprising. They maintained their control of the Bibracte oppidum, a massive hill fort located in Burgundy, France, and eventually moved the entire population of the town to Autun, 25 kilometers away.


	3. Rome Didn't Burn In A Day

Philippe raged.

Julius Caesar’s blood lay splattered across the senate floor. The conspirators had gone underground, fearful of retribution. The careful political manoeuvring he had laid down for the safety of his family, for the safety of Rome, had been undone in an instant by impatience and short sightedness.

Lucius stood obediently in a corner and silently watched his father stalk. Neither of them had been opposed to Caesar’s murder- indeed, they had been encouraging it since Caesar first crossed the Rubicon in open defiance of Senate law- but Philippe had been trying to manipulate the Senate into assassinating him quietly, in private.

He was simply too popular with the common people for his death to be considered a good thing. Now that blood had been spilt so openly, there was going to be serious problems from all sides.

Finally, Philippe stilled. He beckoned Lucius over and gripped his son by the shoulder.

‘We go to Cicero’s house this morning, and from there we will decide what action to take regarding the welfare of our family. Have a servant ready the horses.’

Lucius nodded and left.

* * *

Cicero welcomed them warmly enough but with a distinct tang of nervousness reeking from every pore. He was right to be nervous. Marcus Tullius Cicero now had the unenviable task of keeping the Senate from tearing itself apart from the inside. He was, along with Mark Antony, effectively the new figurehead of Rome. At least for now.

‘Wine!’ Cicero snapped his fingers and a servant scuttled off to fetch refreshments while he gestured for them to sit down. Lucius angled himself so that his back was towards a blank stone wall; he kept two of the three entrances into the room at the edges of his periphery, Philippe lounging testily to his left on a couch.

‘We did not come here to drink wine,’ Philippe glared across at the warmblood, who twitched slightly, uncomfortable. ‘We came to discuss your failure at keeping Rome from descending into anarchy.’

‘I tried my best-'

‘Clearly not’

Lucius stiffened slightly in surprise as a servant came gliding into the room. The girl was no older than sixteen, ropey and muscular, with long brown ringlets pulled back by a strip of leather. She smelt strongly of olive oil and almonds, and as she moved forward and placed a tray of cups before them her eyes flicked up, glancing briefly at Philippe and Lucius before retreating back the way she had come.

‘Your servants are..unusually graceful’ Lucius tried to keep his voice even. Up close the smell had been unmistakable; the girl was a vampire, and only a few centuries older than Lucius himself.

Cicero smiled, craning his head round to smile indulgently towards the now empty corridor. ‘Ah, yes, yes. Blanda was a gift from Decimus Albinus, by way of that fellow he has working in the fighting pits for him. Ah…Sismund, I think he’s called, from Germania.’

‘A recent gift?’ Philippe asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

‘Quite recent’

Philippe and Lucius exchanged a brief glance. Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus had been closer to Julius Caesar than any man alive. Caesar considered him to be his son, and yet that did not stop Decimus from plunging his dagger into the man’s heart.

‘How many other gifts were sent to you from the house of Albinus?’ Philippe asked casually.

Cicero nodded at a boy hovering nearby, who dashed away and came back a few minutes later with three individuals. The girl, Blanda, had clearly been cleaning in the kitchen; she had soot on her hands and feet, but had hurriedly washed her face with a wet cloth.

A black woman stood beside her, long dark curls cascading down her shoulders. She was older than Lucius but not yet forty, wearing a caramel-coloured tunic and thick sandals. She stood with her head bowed, as was appropriate for a servant, but there was a quiet, matronly strength to her pose.

The third individual was clearly a Gaul. He was the same height as Lucius, and possibly the same age, both in warmblood and vampiric years. He was wearing a caramel-coloured tunic as well, but his reed-woven sandals were thinner and quite worn.

‘Come closer’ Cicero waved the group forward, then gestured to each of them in turn.

‘Blanda, Merula, and Tinus’

‘Why don’t you interview them while Cicero and I speak business?’ Lucius was on his feet before Philippe had finished speaking. He had moved deliberately quickly to gauge the others’ reactions; Blanda flinched and Merula moved so that she was subtly shielding the young girl. Tinus just stared.

Now that he was standing next to him, Lucius realised that the Gaul was actually two inches taller than him, with a tanned, muscular physique and hair so blonde it was almost white. His eyes were grey like wet river stones, but when he glanced back over his shoulder as Lucius marched the trio outside into a courtyard they had changed to a light sea green.

The Gaul smelt nice.

He wasn’t clean; Lucius could smell the horse dung clinging to his sandals from where he hadn’t quite managed to scrape it off. But underneath it Tinus smelt of rain, and a musk Lucius would suddenly identify centuries later as tobacco.

Apricot, too. A metallic tang that should have been acrid but wasn’t. Soothing, like lighting on the wind just before a storm. Rich, damp soil; fir trees and wool grease and mead.

Cucumber, and black pepper, and subtler, deeper layers of spice that made Lucius’ skin tingle pleasantly. He resisted the urge to sniff deeply and came to a halt beside an olive tree in the middle of the yard.

‘Why are you here?’ he said, curtly. Tinus stared at him but said nothing. Blanda wouldn’t meet his eye; instead she stared at the ground, her fingers reaching out and grasping Merula’s wrist.

‘We were sent here by our master to make Cicero’s life comfortable’ said Merula. She spoke softly but her voice carried. ‘We are but humble servants of Rome.’

‘Did your master make you his servants or-‘

‘He did’

Sismund of Germania. The name did ring a very small bell.

‘And how many more are you?’

‘Our sisters, Mantia and Elantia, and a brother, Carmo’

Ah, the twins. Now he remembered.

Mantia and Elantia were the latest rising stars of Rome’s fighting pits, twins who fought side by side with daggers and short swords against any opponents who would challenge them. They had racked up quite the body count so far, and didn’t appear too keen to stop any time soon. He would have to keep Philippe appraised of all this when he returned inside.

‘Why this household?’

‘We didn’t murder Caesar’ Tinus cut in flatly, before Merula could reply. A slight shiver trickled down Lucius’ spine. Tinus’ voice was clear and strong, his thick Celtic accent adding a melodious note to his Latin.

‘Tinus-‘ Merula put a hand on his elbow; he shrugged her off.

‘It wasn’t your hand on the knife, no, but did you plant the idea?’ Lucius scowled.

Tinus shrugged. ‘Easy enough to accomplish when they were already out for blood’

Lucius grit his teeth. ‘Assassination may have been inevitable, but it could have been done cleanly.’

Tinus glared at him again. He seemed almost bored. It took everything in him to stop himself wrapping his hands around the Gaul’s throat.

‘He didn’t deserve a clean death’ Tinus spat on the floor. Merula flung an arm across his chest, glancing nervously between the two men. Lucius felt a nerve start throbbing in his head; his right hand was balled into a fist so tight his knuckles had turned white.

‘Leave’ Lucius hissed. He thrust a finger towards the opposite courtyard wall. ‘Go back to your master and tell him to keep his machinations to himself or we will force him to get the _fuck_ out of Rome.’

With solemn dignity, head held high, Merula took Blanda’s hand firmly in hers and marched boldly out of the courtyard gate. Tinus spat again, this time at Lucius’ feet, then turned and stalked after his sisters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know exactly where the members of the Senate holed up after they killed Caesar but I wrote this before I thought to worry too much about geography. Oops!
> 
> Both Cicero and Decimus Albinus were real people, and really were deeply involved in the assassination of Julius Caesar.
> 
> A portrait which closesly resembles Tinus (although he has lighter hair and a touch more green to his eyes): https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/1125968647235926/
> 
> The painting is actually _Vere Sidney Tudor Harmsworth_ (1916), by Philip Alexius de László


	4. Doubt

It had been a group effort, in the end. Blanda caught the viper in a basket she had woven out of rushes. Carmo milked it; Merula mixed the venom with wine to make the poison more palatable, and Elantia and Mantia stood guard outside the Cherusci leader’s tent while Tinus pinned Arminius down and Sismund tipped the concoction down his throat.

Sismund had insisted they be the ones to end Arminius’ life. “It is a mercy, truly” he had said, looming above them as they sat in a loose circle in the forest clearing they called home. “He deserves a good death, despite being a Roman, and we should give him that before another unworthy tribe cleaves open his skull.” Then he had grinned.

 _Despite being a Roman_. Arminius had been born the son of a noble father, Segimerus, the chief of the Cherusci. The boy had been kidnapped by the Romans, educated and taught to fight, and returned to his native Germania after fifteen years’ a celebrated Roman legionnaire.

But Germania had not been tamed by Rome, as it had often boasted loudly, and the people living in his village were not happy to be stripped of their right to bear arms, or be squeezed for tribute to a government that were unwilling to follow their laws. The Romans took away their swords, and took the power of the gods into their hands when they sentenced thieves and murderers to be hung. They had to be stopped.

Arminius united several prominent local tribes, no small feat when Germanic loyalty lay with a single tribal leader and no one else, and tricked his Roman masters into diverting three legions through the Teutoburg Forest to deal with an imaginary uprising.

By the end of the fight, twenty thousand soldiers lay slaughtered.

It should have been the start of something great. It could have been, if the tribes had remained loyal. But multiple tribes unifying under a single leader went against everything they believed in, and Arminius was just Roman enough for the idea to turn bitter in their minds. Whispers became murmurings; Arminius had to die.

Tinus sat back against a tree in the middle of a forest clearing and closed his eyes. He could hear Blanda scurry about, filling the washing pot with water while Carmo shouted lewdly at her and Mantia and Elantia shouted at him. Merula was repairing a fishing net Carmo had stolen from camp as they fled into the night. Sismund was sitting on the damp ground beside the fire, slurping the marrow from a deer’s thigh bone.

_Blue eyes stare desperately into his. Hurt. Confused. Muscles struggle to get away. Pointless._

Tinus’ eyes snapped back open and he grabbed a fistful of grass to stop himself from gasping. A good man was dead, and Tinus couldn’t help but feel he had strangled something holy.


	5. Confirmation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **GORE AND VIOLENCE; ANIMAL DEATH; MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH**

The Colosseum craved blood. It needed it, demanded it. The land on which it stood had been claimed by Emperor Nero after the Great Fire it was rumoured he himself had started, and funded using treasure stolen from the Jewish Temple during the Siege of Jerusalem. Animal blood was mixed in with volcanic ash and lime to make its concrete walls, and the floor of the main arena and the hidden Spoliarium was covered in coarse sand to better soak up the sanguine fluids of the dead or dying.

Sismund had dragged the family back to Rome to take another stab at the heart of the empire. This time round he had managed to secure them a place at court, with himself playing politician alongside the emperor Titus. So far he had done quite well; they had received an official invitation to the inauguration of the Colosseum and, upon arriving, had been installed in seats only a few rows below the royal viewing box.

Tinus bit down a yawn and tried not to look tired. He and Carmo were acting as Sismund’s bodyguards, while Blanda and Merula waited on him hand and foot. Mantia and Elantia were somewhere below in the bowels of the Colosseum, preparing. Sismund had conscripted them into a match that day for the amusement of their patron; Tinus and Carmo had been sparring them relentlessly for months in preparation.

The only thing spoiling Sismund’s morning was Phillipe. The legate had been a perpetual threat to their newfound wealth ever since he had found out that they had returned to Rome. The distaste was mutual and, with Phillipe and his clan sitting along the row to Sismund’s right, rising sharply.

Tinus ignored the look of concern his near-yawn had raised in Phillipe’s mate, Genevieve. She had made her disapproval of Sismund’s methods of raising his children known the moment she set eyes on them. Where Sismund ordered and his children obeyed, Genevieve preferred, in Sismund’s view, to coddle her children, catering to their whims and wishes even when it was detrimental to the welfare of the clan.

The children in question sat next to her in order of age, oldest to youngest. Hadwin, Lucius and Gaius were dressed in similar finery, but where his older and younger brothers lounged in their chairs, Lucius sat up stiffly, his back straight. He seemed tense about his father being so close to someone who so despised him, and being too far away to effectively do anything to shield him if need be was adding to his discomfort.

The Roman smelt nice.

A cloying sulfuric musk hung around him, highlighting his distress. But beneath it he smelt, perpetually, of smoke and saddle leather, with a thick underlying fug of lavender.

Bitter aniseed. A sharp, metallic tang as if he had sucked on a silver coin. The clean, crisp smell of dust after rain, and the rich earthen smell of wet clay.

Vanilla, and citron, and cypress trees, and subtler, deeper layers of floral scent that made the hairs on the back of Tinus’ neck bristle pleasantly. He resisted the urge to sniff deeply and refocused his concentration as the crowd rose to thunderous cheers and the first competitors of the day emerged into the arena.

Tinus’ heart stopped.

* * *

The smell was unmistakable. Elantia gripped her spear and turned her head nervously towards her sister as the gate on the far side creaked open. They were both blindfolded. Although they usually fought side by side as Dimachaerus, wielding a dagger in either hand, but today they had been told to prepare to fight as Andabata.

Two dull thuds, then a roar so loud it reverberated through the walls of the arena, blocking out the howls and taunts of the crowd. A second roar mirrored the first, at the same intensity.

Lions.

Two of them.

There were only minutes left before the carnivores reorientated themselves and honed in on their new meal.

‘I’ll go right, you go left’ said Elantia. Mantia nodded, then remembered the blindfold.

‘Alright. Good luck’

‘Good hunting’

Elantia inched along the wall, the base of her spear scraping against stone, guiding her. From the heavy padding of the creature’s paws, each lion was at least eight feet long, and probably weighed around six hundred pounds. Elantia swallowed her fear and pressed on.

The lions were aware of them now.

The lions charged.

Elantia braced herself against the wall, launching herself off, to the left. She tumbled to her feet like the skilled acrobat she was, spear at the ready. The lion gave a frustrated roar and wheeled after her.

It lunged for her, leaping, and she leapt higher, the crowd gasping with astonishment as she twirled through the sky and plunged her spear down into the creature’s back. The metal tip burrowed into the meat of its shoulder blade and it let out a pained yowl, rolling over in an attempt to get whatever was hurting it, out.

Elantia pulled the spear out of reach of the lion’s swiping paws and listened intently to the rhythm of its gait. Timing carefully, she thrust the spear forward, catching the lion in the face. Warm blood splattered over her front as it recoiled with a seething hiss.

The screaming crowd had risen to their feet. Fights pitting Andabata against starving animals were usually over by now, the competitors a mangled bloody mess of torn limbs and sinew strewn about. But even blindfolded, vampires were not as fragile and graceless as humans.

Elantia and the lion danced around each other, trading and parrying each other’s attacks. Gore-soaked sand was sticking to her legs now, making it difficult not to slip. A lucky swipe at her face caught her by surprise, tearing a chunk of flesh from her cheek and nose, and ripping the cloth from her eyes.

She screamed in pain, and dove to the right.

The lion got there first.


	6. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **GRAPHIC GORE/VIOLENCE**

They found the bodies in the atrium.

The corpses were lying on the tiled floor, limbs tangled together in a macabre mosaic, blood still smeared across their mouths. Carmo’s scent was there, drifting lazily above the heavier, sedentary smell of Sismund. Their father had sired them, their brother had dumped them there.

Tinus’ despondent silence melted into fury.

A fourteen-year-old boy in hand-me-down rags was curled against the side of an elderly wine merchant that Tinus had seen about the city a few days before. A woman missing an eye and a beggar missing three fingers lay pinned beneath a tall man with a potbelly and curly red hair. There were twelve people in total, from all ages and ethnicities across the social divide. Carmo had taken from the fringes of society anyone he could find who would not be missed, as well as strangers from out of town who would be long gone before their families reported them missing.

‘Did you give them a choice?’ Blanda muttered quietly. Tinus didn’t bother turning; Carmo had slid as quietly as he could into the doorway behind them, sandals swishing over stone.

He heard the rustle of homespun wool as Carmo shrugged.

‘We’re down by two; he-‘ Carmo’s neck creaked as he tilted his head in the direction of Sismund’s office, ‘-wanted to bolster our numbers. The better to repay the insult the emperor saw fit to bestow upon us.’

Mantia had died moments after Elantia, screaming for her sister and reaching towards her broken corpse even as the lion she had been fighting ripped out her throat. Sismund had ordered them to take what was left and dump it in the burial pits by the city walls, but they dug the twins a grave in the local cemetery and bribed the guards to look the other way while they were interred.

Only unwanted slaves or criminals deliberately sent to die usually opened colosseum games. By having the twins be the first attraction of the day, Emperor Titus may as well have physically slapped Sismund for brazenly trying to climb the social ladder.

_You have money, and power, and strength, but I am Emperor. Back down you go._

‘Why did you not come with us to bury your sisters?’ Blanda’s voice was even and quiet, like it always was, but something in her inflection made Tinus shiver. Carmo didn’t appear to notice because he shrugged nonchalantly again.

‘I didn’t care to’

Snarling furiously, Blanda wrapped her hands around Carmo’s throat. Tinus turned, expecting to see a flurry of movement behind his sister, but Sismund remained elsewhere.

Carmo raised a hand to strike her but Blanda easily blocked the blow, holding his wrist and pulling down sharply. There was a tearing sound as sinew and bones were ripped out of place; Carmo struggled and howled in pain, but he could not get loose of his younger sister’s grip.

Tinus grabbed Merula and they hid together in the corner, watching fearfully. Blanda wrenched her brother’s other arm from its socket, then drove the heel of her left foot into Carmo’s shins, shattering the bones. When he could do nothing except whine in pain, hissing through fitful breaths, she finally dug the tips of her fingers into the flesh of his neck and ripped out his throat.

An irritated sigh echoed through the silence. The siblings turned; Sismund stood in the archway on the other side of the atrium, arms hanging by his sides, looking down his nose with disdain.

‘You have destroyed my best officer’

‘He was a coward and a bully’ Blanda spat. She opened her bloodstained arms towards her remaining siblings, gesturing for them to come forward. Merula scuttled to her side, wrapping her arms around her older sister’s shoulders. Tinus, shocked into silence by this uncharacteristic display of assertiveness, ran to the other side of Blanda and eyed their father warily.

‘And what of you?’ Blanda continued. She stabbed a finger at the pile of newborn vampires sleeping between them. ‘Mantia and Elantia not cold in the ground a day and already so easily replaced? They were your children!’

_CRACK_

Sismund appeared in front of them, a closed fist swinging up into Blanda’s jaw.

‘Do not tell me the value I should place on any of you!’ Sismund hissed. Blanda dropped to the floor, whimpering and clutching her face. Tinus and Merula threw themselves over her, their eyes wide with shock.

‘You are mine and I WILL BE OBEYED!’

 _Obeyed_.

 _Mine_.

Blanda, abandoned and left to die only to be raised by a farmer and his barren wife. A young woman considered slow and stupid, who slurred her words and walked with a limp.

Merula, the dark-skinned daughter of a slave from the far-reaches of the empire, who had poisoned her way to freedom only to be caught and used in a prisoner exchange between a Roman garrison and a group of Germanic tribesmen.

Tinus, the Gaul mercenary who died and was reborn in war, who had once believed that the man staring down at him would lead both their people to freedom.

_When did you trade our dream for power?_

They locked eyes with each other.

_Why?_

They moved as one.

Tinus gripped Sismund’s right leg while Merula grabbed the left, both pushing with all their might. Blanda barrelled straight forward into his chest; he stumbled backwards but did not fall, letting out a blistering roar.

He backhanded Blanda across the room and hauled Tinus up by his hair. Digging his fingers into Sismund’s thigh, Tinus used the upward momentum to slice open Sismund’s leg as Merula bit into his ankle, severing his Achilles tendon. Sismund lost his grip on Tinus, dropping him; Tinus landed heavily on his side, lashing out and ripping through his other heel.

Blanda, by this point, was up and moving, running swiftly back into the fray. She grabbed Sismund by the face and bunched her fingers together, jabbing them up under his chin. Sismund gurgled, fury in his eyes, but as he tried to move his arms up to kill his oldest daughter Tinus and Merula grabbed his hands and locked his arms behind his back.

A final twist of Blanda’s hand and a river of blood poured violently out of the gaping wound in Sismund’s throat. The trio let go and their father slumped forward onto the floor, his eyes open and staring.

Merula started sobbing, trembling from head to toe as she buried her face into her sister’s chest. Blanda held her tight, rocking back and forth, running dripping fingers through her hair.

Gripped by some strange compulsion, Tinus licked a stripe of Sismund’s blood off his arm.

_A falcon shrieking, wheeling in the sky above-_

_-Contempt. How dare they look down on him-_

_-the woman beneath him moaned wantonly-_

_-Rome has won…long live the Empire..-_

* * *

The sound of metal hitting ceramic tile brought him back to earth.

Merula had found a sword from somewhere and was going slowly round to each of the newborns, cutting off each of their heads. Blanda followed, tidying up behind her; by the time they were done Tinus had wandered off to their rooms and come back with their belongings neatly packed into sacks and baskets.

‘We need to split up for a while. What we’ve done here today… if we’re caught there will be trouble’ said Blanda, as the city stirred awake around them. She clasped Merula and Tinus by the arm, and hugged them.

‘We will meet again. I promise.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this over three days, at 4.00AM. I'm not happy with it, it took ages to write, and I re-wrote it from the beginning six times before I got into the swing of it. But it's done.
> 
> I realised that I screwed up Blanda's backstory: her parents can't be innkeepers because taverns weren't a thing until 1BC, which would make her younger than Tinus.. oops!

**Author's Note:**

> The origin of the horseshoe is tentatively put around 900AD. Consider it's use here to the first of many minor inaccuracies.


End file.
